


To Understand

by wandering_gypsy_feet



Series: Defined [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 11:43:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12387408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandering_gypsy_feet/pseuds/wandering_gypsy_feet
Summary: To understand is to perceive the meaning of; grasp the idea of; comprehend, or to assign a meaning to; interpret; or to grasp the significance, implications, or importance of.Tyrion understands just who Sansa Stark is now, while Arya understands the importance of Sandor Clegane's past, and Dany understands something incredible about the natures of both Sansa and Sandor.A one-shot, post 7x07, where upon reuniting at Winterfell, true relationships come out, and everyone tries to understand.





	To Understand

**Author's Note:**

> Back by popular demand!!! (Or is it? Doesn't matter. Can't stop writing SanSan.) I decided to carry this and completely neglect my other GOT works, but I had to get it out of my head. I've decided there will probably be a third part from Sansa and whoever else's POV (Davos? Brienne? Pod? Throw your ideas out folks, I've got no control anymore.)
> 
> So without further ado, we've got some more SanSan!

Tyrion

 

Why in the seven hells can’t he sleep? Right, because the last time he was here, he’d been an uncle to three children, he’d whored his way through the visit, and then he’d blithely gone off to the wall to do what, piss? 

He growls in frustration, pacing. He doesn’t know what it is that keeps him up at night. All his worries, he supposes. His queen, the dragon, and the king, the wolf. He’s not an idiot, he sees the looks between the two of them, and he’s desperately trying to figure out how to spin this situation. That, and his crazy sister, who seems intent on burning the world down rather than preserve it. And a thousand other worries, chasing through his mind. 

Mostly, he longs for wine’s sweet oblivion, but he’s trying to cut back. And all the wines in Winterfell are shit. No Dornish red this far north, he supposes. He’s just about to turn when he hears it, a shriek and then a muffled sob. Instantly, he thinks of Dany— has something happened to her? Is she is danger? Is Jon Snow smothering her right now in her sleep?

He bolts, as fast as he can, for the hall. He’s heading for the largest room, where Dany sleeps, when he stops. The nosies are coming from the open door two down, and he knows that’s where Sansa sleeps. He takes a tentative step towards her chambers, wryly remembering that she is his wife. 

That’ll need to be annulled, if they survive all this. 

He hovers in the doorway, ready to what, provide assistance? Comfort? Once his eyes adjust, he sees that neither are needed. While Sansa is still crying, sitting amongst the furs in a thin nightgown, she’s not alone. The hulking form of Sandor Clegane had clearly entered moments before Tyrion and Sansa reaches her arms for him, like a small child might. 

“Aye, I’m here little bird.” He gathers her into his arms, sitting down on the bed with her and she wraps her arms around his neck and he strokes her hair. Sansa’s sobbing soon calms into a stream of tears, and after a few moments, she shudders but manages to stop crying altogether. 

“Sorry.” She whispers, so quiet Tyrion nearly misses it. 

“Don’t chirp at me girl.” Clegane says it with so much affection Tyrion wants to rub his eyes and see if it really is the Hound in front of him, comforting her. A long silence passes, and he gets the vague notion he should leave, but this is too bewildering. He’d seen him ready to defend her, but he never would’ve thought Sansa would so openly return the large man's feelings. 

“Stay.” She mummers, stroking his cheek, and Clegane leans his head down so the other cheek rests atop her head.

“And who was it tonight?” He asks her lowly. Tyrion is trying to understand when Sansa answers simply,

“Him. It’s always him.” 

“And?” 

“He shot me through with arrows, and then he dumped me into the river.” Sansa’s voice is shaking, but she keeps talking, and after a second, he realizes she’s describing her dream. “I sank, all the way to the bottom, and then I drowned, and I couldn’t breathe and—” She breaks off with a little gasp. 

“You’re here now.” Clegane is rubbing her back now, long slow circles that seem to settle her. “You’re just fine, you’re here now. He’s not going to hurt you, ever again.” 

“I know.” She whispers. “I know. Thank you for coming.” 

“You’re chirping.” His tone is teasing and Tyrion tries to reconcile this man with the one he knew from Kings Landing, who guarded Joffrey. 

“Then make me stop.” Sansa’s voice has a note of challenge and he hears the low rumble of Clegane’s laughter, as he drops his head to hers. Tyrion is frozen, watching in astonishment as Sansa Stark reaches up and eagerly pulls Clegane’s head down so it’s more firmly pressed to hers. 

He needs to go, now, he thinks idly. He needs to leave them to it, because surely one of them will realize that the door is still open and someone hovers in it. But they don’t, so enamored with each other. They separate and settle down into the blankets, and Sansa snuggles into the large man’s hairy chest, and he slings an arm around her. 

“Little bird.” He mummers and Sansa smiles and draws sleepy patterns on his chest. 

“Will you tell me?” She asks sweetly and he grunts before saying softly, 

“I would gut a man that came at you with daggers. I would take my sword and I would cleave him in two before he even got to you. I would run a man through for looking at you the wrong way. If a man tried to touch you, I would remove his hands, and if he—” 

Tyrion waits for Sansa to reel back in horror, as Clegane talks through all the ways he’d kill a man for doing anything to her. He waits for her delicate nature to be overwhelmed, or alarmed. Surely the girl he knew— the girl he married— couldn’t stomach this? And yet, as the man talks about striking down anyone who tries to drag her from her home, he sees that Sansa is falling asleep, seemingly unbothered in the slightest. 

He understands then, in a flash. This is not the Sansa who cowered in fear of Illyn Payne or averted her eyes when knights died at tournaments. This is the northern Sansa, the direwolf of her namesake, and she is comforted lying in the arms of a man who would kill for her. 

Quietly, he eases out of the doorway and hurries back to his room, eager not to be caught by a man he suspects would be extremely displeased to learn he’d been lurking. Once he’s back in his room, he takes a deep breath. 

Tomorrow morning he’ll seek an audience with one of the highnesses, doesn’t matter, and annul that marriage, as quickly as possible. He has no desire to stand between Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane. He’s not sure anyone would survive in that position. 

 

 

Arya

 

“Seven hells.” Sansa swears and Arya glances at her, a hint of a smile on her face. She remembers a time when Sansa would’ve rather shot through than be caught swearing in the presence of others. But her sister is no longer that girl. 

“What?” Jon glances at her with concern. Sansa is pouring over a thick, leather-bound book, filled with tiny scribbles and even smaller notions in the margins. They’re sitting in the solar, the three of them plus Bran, who gazes into the fire. 

“I have no idea what father wrote. Here.” Sansa points to a particularly illegible line. 

“What’s it even about?” Jon squints at it and Sansa sighs. 

“I don’t know, I’m trying to understand how many cows they slaughtered for the winter, but that doesn’t say cows, it has to say—” Sansa and Jon put their heads together, murmuring quietly and Arya smiles slightly. 

It feels good to have her family together here, in the early dawn, just them. Since Jon plans to depart shortly, and Arya secretly knows she will as well, they often break their fasts together in the morning, just being together before their duties of the day sweep them in separate directions. 

“Let me try.” Arya wanders over, glancing at the mess of fading ink. “That doesn’t say cows, it says crows.” 

“Why would he be talking about crows?” Sansa demands, rubbing the bridge of her nose like Arya remembers their father doing. 

“Because it says there was a flock of large crows, and they shot and killed—”

“The only reason you can read that is because your handwriting is just as bad as his was.” Jon teases her, while Sansa smiles. Arya makes a face at him, happy to see that they were all together and for the very smallest of moments, content with it. 

“I need to stop looking at this, it’s starting to make my vision swim.” Sansa declares, setting the book aside and looking at them. 

“I’m going to the training yard.” Arya informs her and Sansa nods, standing.

“I’ll come with you.” 

“Really?” Jon looks surprised. 

“If I’m going to be locked in the hall with you and all the lords for the rest of the day, I need fresh air to keep me from screaming.” Sansa tells him wryly and he smiles. 

“Agreed. Bran, would you like to come?” He offers, and Bran is quiet, looking into the flames. 

“No, thank you.” 

“Alright.” Sansa watches him with barely veiled concern. “We can send someone to bring you to the hall later if you’d like.” 

“Alright.” He inclines his head and Arya sees the sadness on Sansa’s face, that their little brother is so different, but then the look is gone and Lady Stark returns. She leads the way down to the training yard first, with Jon and Arya trailing after her. 

“Will we spar today?” She asks Jon, jostling him. 

“No.” His smile crinkles the corners of his eyes, just like it had when they were young. “I’ve no desire to ride north with bruises.” 

“No one else will spar with me.” Arya complains and Sansa glances back at her. 

“Spar with Sandor then.” 

“What?” Arya nearly trips over the stairs and Jon catches her arm to right her. 

“He’s one of the few people here who might actually be able to beat you.” Sansa looks over her shoulder with a smirk. “Or at least give you a challenge.”

“No,” Arya’s head is spinning, looking at her sister in bewilderment. “When did he become Sandor?” 

She had known of his fondness for her stunning big sister when they’d traveled together. He’d hidden it behind his gruffness and harshness, but she’d seen through it. He’d been enamored with her, and it had revolted and amused Arya in equal measures, but she’s never once considered that Sansa has ever even taken note of him. 

When did she learn his first name? Why isn’t she calling him the Hound, or Clegane, like everyone else? Why does she call him by his first name, and say it so sweetly? How the hell did they end up here? Sure, she’d seen him ready to defend her, the instant they’d been reunited. But she never would have ever guessed that Sansa would ever seemingly return the bond. 

Sansa doesn’t answer her, but it may be because they’ve entered the training yard. In front of them, shouting orders at the men and woman standing with bows, is the man himself, looking annoyed. But the second he glances their way and spots Sansa, his whole demeanor changes. 

It almost makes Arya want to roll her eyes and make a comment, seeing how he softens and lowers his voice, turning and looking at her. But she’s not paying that much attention to him, preferring to watch Sansa’s reaction. 

To her surprise, and very slight horror, she sees how Sansa has practically melted. All the tenseness and worry has slid off her face, and instead she is smiling with a tenderness Arya has only seen directed to immediate family members. She is stunned, narrowing her eyes when he walks over and performs a clumsy, if not well meaning bow to Sansa. 

“Lady Stark.” He rumbles and Jon emerges over her shoulder, glowering. Clegane doesn’t seem to notice, as all of his attention is diverted to Sansa. 

“Hello Sandor.” Sansa greets him and Arya could have been toppled over by a stiff breeze in her surprise. Proper Lady Sansa using the first name of someone several stations below her, in the company of others? “How goes it?” 

“Alright.” He inspects the crowd critically, as they continue to drill. “Not many are ready for what’s coming.” 

“We appreciate your efforts in training them.” Sansa says softly and Arya wants to vomit at the pure adoration in her voice. The look between the two of them could melt the snow that covers the training yard. 

“Of course.” He looks like a lovesick puppy. Jon clears his throat extra loudly and both of them look up. After a half second, Clegane bows his head to Jon. 

“I want to spar.” Arya says suddenly, almost demanding. To her ears, she sounds a little too much like the girl he carried across the Riverlands. Clearly he hears it too, because his smile turns rather sinister, quite unlike what he shows her sister. 

“Aye?” 

“Yes.” She juts her chin out and tries to regain her image of maturity. “I need a challenge, and no one else here can give it to me.” 

“Alright.” For some reason, when he glances at Sansa, his chest puffs out like a damn bird. Sansa, eyes sparkling, moves to the side, tugging a reluctant Jon with her. Once they’re nearly out of earshot, Arya mutters quietly, 

“Do you love my sister?” 

“What?” He nearly drops his sword and Arya takes her opportunity to lunge onto the offensive and begin their fight. She keeps the upper hand for her first couple moves, a couple blows he scarcely has time to counter, then quickly begins to lose it.

He’s fast, and so much faster when she’s actually fighting him, rather than watching. She’d learned, from watching him, what his habits and moves were, but now that it’s her trying to dodge his thrusts and jabs, he moves faster than she remembers. However, she’s still smaller and quicker, and far and above more agile. 

But he has someone to show off for, she realizes. She’s showing off for Jon, she always does because she wants him to see what she can do now, and it doesn’t frighten him as much as it does Sansa. But Clegane is showing off for Sansa, and it makes him all the better, really. 

She tries to go for his exposed side, and has to roll out of the way when the sword whistles past in the space where she’d been. She tries to kick his feet out from under him, but he’s already moved a step to the left and is going for her ribs. They keep dancing, again and again, until suddenly Jon calls out, 

“Enough!” 

They both stop, panting, and turn in annoyance to see why he’s ended what had been, up until that point, an excellent sparring session. It’s because the dragon queen, flanked by her advisors, has arrived. Arya huffs and does a poor imitation of a curtsey, while Clegane nods. Sansa and Jon both turn to speak to her, while Arya scowls. 

“I don’t understand why she has to ruin everything.” She mutters, uncaring if she sounds like a sulking child. “That was good.” 

“Aye.” Clegane wipes sweat from his brown and goes for a drink. “You’re better.” 

“I know.” Arya says proudly. 

“Dirty trick though, distracting me like that.” He glares at her and Arya grins, unapologetically. 

“If it wasn’t true, it wouldn’t distract you.” 

“Watch it.” He warns, eyes fixed on Sansa. She’s listening quietly as Jon speaks to the fair queen, and after a moment, she looks back at him and a faint smile grows on her lips. 

“Why?” Arya is curious now, because this is the question that’s been bothering her all along. Why Sansa? Because she’s beautiful or powerful? Why hadn’t he gotten over her in the years that had passed?

“It’s her.” He says simply, not denying what he surely knows she’s implying. “It’s always been her.” 

“Because she’s so pretty.” Arya narrows her eyes. “Or because she’s an heiress?”

“Because she’s good.” He looks pained, but Arya's not done with him yet. “Because she makes me good, and that’s no easy task.” 

“You’re not good.” Arya protests. “You’re the—“

“Worst shit in the seven kingdoms, aye.” He takes a swig. “I recall.” 

“Then why the hell does she like you back?” Arya demands, voicing the thing that’s been bothering her all along.

“I don’t know.” He sounds annoyed and slightly strangled, like the words cause him pain. “I don’t know.” 

"But why," She begins again but he silences her with a stern look. 

"I don't know and if you keep asking, I'll chop off your hands." 

"There's a familiar one." She mutters, taking her own sip of water when Sansa bobs a curtsey and leaves Jon and the queen to rejoin them. Her hands are folded demurely in front of her, ever the proper lady, but her mouth is tugging into a smile. Her eyes are fixed on Clegane, and his on hers. They're like two halves of a whole, like they wish to be fitted together. Arya watches it all in astonishment. 

"That was excellent." Her words are directed at the both of them. "And rather amusing to watch. Like a crow pestering a horse." Sansa's eyes sparkle in amusement. 

"I object to that metaphor." Arya states. 

"I think a crow fits you." He snorts. "Annoying and sneaky." 

"I am not." Arya rolls her eyes at the two of them, intending to leave them to it, when she pauses, watching Sansa. She's taken a step closer to Clegane, reaching up to tuck his hair behind his good ear. 

"Would you come riding with me today?" She asks him softly. 

"Do you not have to be the lady?" He responds just as quietly and Arya has the general feeling of intruding. 

"For only a little while." Sansa says, with a small laugh. "But with Jon back, they'll be eager to talk battle. I can get away this evening. A short ride, before dusk." 

"Of course I'll accompany you." He promises and Sansa lights up in delight. "I'll await your word, little bird." 

"Alright." Sansa beams and when Arya sees just how adoring Clegane's look is, she understands what he'd said earlier. It's her, it's always been her. He had been awful back then, sure. But since arriving here, Arya has only ever seen him as dutiful, to Jon and to his job of training men. She's seen him respectful, of her sister and brother, and even the foreign dragon queen. She's seen him even what could be dubbed sociable, taking his meals with other men at arms, and speaking a few words to them.

But with her sister, he turns into a tender heart, bent to her whims easily. Arya half thinks that Sansa could demand he ride a dragon for her and he'd do so to make her happy. He smiles at Sansa, and turns soft. He's not the Hound, or even Clegane. He's Sandor, the sweet name that Sansa utters. He's a man in love, and he's made better for it. And Sansa is truly his better half, the only person in the world who seemingly draws out the small amount of goodness that remains in him. No one else could do such a task and she wonders if Sansa is even aware of what power she holds. 

She looks up to see such happiness on her sister's face as Clegane secures his cloak around her, muttering about the cold, despite all of them knowing that Sansa doesn't mind the cold anyways. And then, Arya understands that they're in love, she as much as he. 

For the life of her though, she doesn't understand why. 

 

 

Dany

 

“Sansa,” Jon sounds, to Dany's ears, like he’s drawing upon the very last dregs of his patiences to sustain this conversation. She can’t blame him, really. She doesn’t know what it’s like to have siblings, certainly not younger ones, and so defiant at that. Sansa sits across from the two of them, back ramrod straight, and eyes cut by steel. “Now?” 

“There will be no better time.” She says promptly. “Soon, you’ll ride for Castle Black. You’ll make your last stand, and if you fail, we will all be dead. If you have any suggestions when else we might do it, I’d gladly hear them.” 

“You…” Jon is clearly struggling for words and he glances at Dany, but she remains impassive. She’s not sure how to play this and so she’s quiet. “Him?” 

“Him.” Sansa says firmly and all eyes are fixed on Sandor Clegane, who looks both angry and uncomfortable. Dany wonders, vaguely, if he has any other expressions. “Don’t deny me this Jon. Please.” Her voice takes on a slight desperate note. 

“Sansa, he’s…” Jon trails off, looking at him with distrust. 

“He’s mine.” Sansa can’t help but sound a little bit like a petulant child being denied sweets. “I will marry him.” 

“What were your mother’s words?” Jon gives her a stern look. 

“Family, duty, honor.” Sansa says automatically. “But I’ve done my duty. I let Joffrey beat me. I let Baelish manipulate me. I let Ramsey rape me. What more can I do Jon? What more would you have me sacrifice?” Sansa spits and then reaches down and rests a hand on Clegane’s shoulder. He’s half out of his chair, a snarl on his lips. 

“Easy.” Jon looks at him and Dany can see the respect in his eyes for the large fighter. “I just… Sansa, you know how things work. You don’t want to wait, in case…” He trails off, and the words hang unspoken in the air, though they all known what he meant to say.

In case someone better comes along. Someone with titles, and money, and a castle. Someone with a better offer. In case a marriage alliance is needed. In case Jon needs his little sister and her hand to bargain with. 

“I will not.” Sansa is trembling from head to toe and Dany wonders if it’s in fear or rage. Judging by the clenched fist, she’d say rage. She likes Sansa, not in the least because she respects her as a leader. She sees something of herself in the younger woman, in the way that she’s survived hardships at the hands of men, and has come out wielding that power.

“Alright then, you.” Jon sighs and addresses Clegane, who scowls at him. “What do you want then, for my sister’s hand? A lordship then, or some dowery? You’ll have to forgive me, I might only be able to spare a couple chickens.” 

“I don’t want shit.” Clegane looks like he’d rather be standing naked on the plains outside, but it’s clear from the look on Jon’s face, he must answer to him, and him alone. “Just her. She’s… Enough. Everything.” 

“You won’t demand anything?” Dany decides now is time to question. Besides, if things go to where she has hesitantly allowed herself to dream of, Sansa will be a part of her family anyways. Her marriage is Dany’s business. “The Reach is devoid of a lord, and so is Dorne, and the Stormlands. Would you like one of those?” 

“No.” He says flatly and after an elbow from Sansa, amends himself to, “No, your grace.” 

“Why not?” Jon doesn’t sound judgmental, just plainly curious and Dany can’t blame him. A man taking a wife with the last name Stark, and not demanding anything? He could ask for the Iron Throne itself and Dany isn’t sure Jon would deny him it, if this is truly what Sansa wants.

“I’ve never given a fuck about titles before.” He states and another elbow from Sansa makes him hold his tongue a little. “Won’t start now.” 

“And you still think you’re a suitable match for my sister?” Jon questions incredulously. 

“No.” He answers quickly. “I know I’m not.” 

“Sandor.” Sansa says quietly but aside from brushing her cheek with his fingers, he ignores her. 

“I failed to protect her once. I will spend the rest of my life making up for that. I’ll never be enough for her. I can only try.” He says quietly. “I just want her happiness.” 

“Sansa.” Jon turns back to his sister, as though he can’t believe he’s having this conversation. “You—”

“I love him.” Sansa declares flatly and Dany can’t help but admire the devotion between the two siblings. Would she have ever had that with her brother? She knows the answer would’ve been no. 

“I know.” Jon says softly. “But you know how the lords will react, if he’s not equal to you. If we made him lord of… Something, he—“

“No.” Clegane says firmly. “I don’t want it.” 

“Then will you remain here, in Winterfell?” Jon is losing patience. 

“Aye.” Clegane shrugs, as if it’s the most obvious thing. “She doesn’t want to leave here. It’s her home. And I stay with her.” 

That is an interesting turn of events, and Dany can see that Jon is reeling. Even she can’t understand it, really. A man, who could have control over any of the kingdoms, along with a beautiful bride, and untold riches, turning it down, because it isn’t what she wants? She can’t understand. Not even Drogo, who she knows loved her, would’ve done such a thing for her. 

“I don’t want to leave Winterfell.” Sansa says quietly, her fingers very closely intertwined with Clegane. “At least not yet. Maybe not ever. I… Can’t. There’s so much out there Jon, so much hurt and memories. I’ll stay here, I’ll rule the north for as long as you need me to, and I want to do it with Sandor.” 

“So what, the house Stark will disappear? Clegane’s will rule the north?” Jon glares at Sansa and Dany knows there’s sensitivity there, around the father they share. 

“I am a Stark.” Sansa states icily.

“Aye, and she’ll rule, not me.” Clegane seems mightily amused at that notion. “I’ll train the men and the hounds. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the rest.” 

“Sandor!” Sansa chides him, but in the way an old wife might her old husband. Dany frankly envies them for their love, and so she speaks, 

“And the children?” 

“The what?” From the look on Clegane’s face, she might have asked him to go feed Drogon. 

“Children.” She repeats, a little amused. “Surely, if you go to your marriage bed, there will children?” 

“Yes,” Jon seems to take up her argument with equal parts gusto and disgust. “You know that Bran will never have children, and Arya might, though it’s more likely she’ll birth a litter of direwolves. You are the only true born Stark Sansa, and if you marry, they will be Cleganes.” 

“We haven’t— Didn’t— Discuss.” Sansa says haltingly, eyes on the frozen face of Clegane. He looks ready to bolt and when Sansa takes his hand, he looks down at her as if in a daze. 

“I… Do you… Want?” He mutters and for a second, Dany realizes that to them, she and Jon might as well be wooden chairs. They’ve ceased to exist to the pair of lovers, and Sansa reaches up to put a lock of his black hair behind his good ear, smiling. 

“Of course.” 

“Do you want… Mine?” He sounds terrified by the thought.

“Of course.” Sansa whispers soothingly. “Of course, there’s no one else. I imagine a little boy, blue eyes and black hair, or a little girl with red hair and grey eyes, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that they’re ours, ours to raise and love.” 

“I will horrify them.” He mutters, a hand rising up to his scars and Sansa intercepts it with ease. 

“You’re their father. They’re love you more than anything, because you will love them. Children don’t mind scars, Sandor. Or at least, ours won’t.” She promises and Dany is unexpectedly overwhelmed by such an intimate scene. She’s intruding and from the look on Jon’s face, he’s thinking the same thing. 

“Alright little bird.” He gives her a shaky smile and Dany feels her heart nearly rent in two at the tenderness there. He reminds her of Drogo, a strong, violent man turned sweet by the hand of a woman. Sansa beams and squeezes his hand, before seemingly remembering Jon and Dany, turning to them a little guiltily. 

“I don’t know what to do about the children.” She admits quietly. “I know they will be Cleganes, Jon, but I am still a Stark and—“

“Let them be bastards.” Clegane says unexpectedly and that gets the attention of everyone. Before Jon can explode, which Dany imagines isn’t far off, he explains, “Let her bear my children, and birth them as Snows. Let them be raised here, in the north, like any true born Stark. And when the time comes, naturalize them.” He looks between Jon and Dany. “Either one of you. Doesn’t matter. They can be Starks then, and they can carry on. She’s as much Stark as you.” He looks pointedly at Jon, who squirms. 

“That means you won’t marry, until after—”

“All of my marriages were a sham.” Sansa has that spark in her eyes again and Dany wonders if that’s how she keeps warm, during the cold northern nights. Hair and heart made of flames. She finds herself liking the girl even more. “Married, not married, I don’t give a damn. He has my heart, my hand, my bed, my everything. Everyone knows it. It doesn’t matter.” 

“All I want is her.” Clegane mutters and Sansa beams at him. 

“You could change to succession order.” Sansa looks between the two of them, wondering which will be her ally. “We’re to have a woman sit on the Iron Throne shortly. Surely it doesn’t matter if my children take my name, instead of his?”

“You’d let your house die?” Dany asks him curiously. She knows the house Clegane isn’t an old one, but at times, her last name has been all she’s had. She can’t imagine willingly letting it die, not for anyone or anything. Not having children had broken her heart. 

“Fuck my house.” He spits into a corner, which earns him a slap on the bicep he barely seems to register. “Fuck my name, fuck my words, fuck my everything. When I kill my brother and when I die, my house will fade, and hopefully so will all memory of it.” 

“Listen.” Now it is Sansa who is out of patience. “Either I will marry him with you to give me away Jon, or I will marry him and do it alone. You pick. But the outcome remains the same. I will marry him Jon.” 

“Please.” The words seem strange, coming from Clegane’s lips, but she can see exactly what it took for him to say them. “Let your sister be happy. I don’t know how the fuck it came to be with me, but…” He trails off and when he looks down at Sansa, Dany suddenly understands. 

He genuinely does not care that she is a Stark. It never made a difference either way. He would love her as a highborn lady, and he would love her as a whore. All this is, it’s for love. He’s not marrying for any other reason than that, it’s simply love. And it takes her breath away to see that something so sweet, so pure and good, has grown in the midst of all the evil. 

“I support it.” She finds herself saying quietly and internally she curses the tender heart she tries to hide. When Jon looks at her, only very mildly betrayed, she can’t help but smile. “Think of how large the Starks will be, with his blood.” 

Sansa snorts aloud, and after a beat, Clegane is roaring with laughter. Jon is frowning at her, in a little bit of an affectionate way, because he knows he is short, and he can only sigh and shake his head before turning back to his sister with a stern look offset by the twinkle in his eye. 

“Fine.” He pretends to be annoyed, but grins when Sansa squeals in happiness. Dany wonders if he is recalling their childhood then, when she might have done so over a bolt of fabric or some sweets. “Clegane, you hurt her, I’ll—”

“Spare me.” Clegane looks as though he’s been clubbed over the head. “Arya’s scarier than you, wolf king.” 

“We have to tell her.” Sansa gasps. “And Bran, and Brienne, and—“ She’s whirling off, yelling about wedding cloaks and lemon cakes. Clegane watches her go with fondness, before turning back to Jon and Dany with an apprehensive look. 

“Welcome to the family then.” Jon gives him a wry smile of amusement. “You know this means you have to claim Arya?” 

Clegane groans and looks, for all intents and purposes, very put out. But Dany can see how his eyes dance, and how his face has relaxed into true happiness. She has a suddenly, violent longing to see such an expression on Jon’s face, and she quickly excuses her with the excuse of helping Sansa to get away from the two men.

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, I'll probably have a third part up next week-ish. As always, reviews are like gold. (seriously, I would not have written this if I had gotten the reviews on part one.) So! Leave me your thoughts on the way out, or just let me know your favorite line or part- that's literally the best. Y'all are awesome, and stay tuned for more SanSan!


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